


sugar pie, honey bunch

by floweryfran



Series: my girl(s) [3]
Category: Iron Man (Comics), Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Awesome Michelle Jones, F/M, Fluff, IronDad and SpiderSon, Irondad, Peter Parker Feels, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Precious Peter Parker, Teen Peter Parker, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, im afraid to post anything much steamier than this but like lmk what ur into, irondad and spider-son, just softness and a moment of the vaguest steam, like when u get ur face too close to a window and it fogs up, literally all is well there is nothing bad here, peter parker is a cheeky little bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:35:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23114041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweryfran/pseuds/floweryfran
Summary: “I should go in,” MJ says. “Wanna check my homework one last time.”“I’m sure it’s perfect,” Peter says. “You literally wouldn’t allow anything less.”“That may be correct, but I am still completely submerged in a sea of anxiety and need to check my conjugations offaire faillite.”“I don’t know what that means but it sounds real pretty when you say it like that,” Peter says, then leans in to peck her cheek. “Bye, honey,” slips off his tongue unbidden, and he suddenly wants to physically turn into a stinkbug so MJ can stomp him under her boots.Her nose wrinkles a little and her skin goes darker. Peter feels the heat from it where their cheeks brush. “Bye, Pete,” she says softly.She leaves with a swish of her skirt, and Peter stands there, immobilized, mortified, and wishing a sixteen-wheeler would do him the favor of bowling him over.
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: my girl(s) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1659547
Comments: 83
Kudos: 392





	sugar pie, honey bunch

**Author's Note:**

> SOFT. this is a series but can 100% be read as a standalone <3

“Wow,” Peter says appreciatively. “This looks great. Look at my ass.”

Tony says, “I most certainly will not.”

“Well, these pants fit like a glove, Mister Stark.” He turns over his shoulder, grins at the slumped posture of the older man in the armchair outside of the Saks fitting room. Tony’s knees are almost level with his chin. “They’ve even got that cropped thing that’s all the rage right now. Did you see Sebastian Stan wearing a suit like this on Jimmy Kimmel? So much ankle. I want to emulate that.”

“Is Sebastian Stan that guy from _Hot Tub Time Machine?”_

“And _I, Tonya,_ and _The Martian,_ and that one old TV show where he’s gay and I totally thought he was gonna fall in love with the soldier who saved his life but then he didn’t.”

“He’s the one who looks like—?”

“Bucky!” Peter says. “Yes, just like Bucky, like, to the point that I thought Sebastian Stan was really Bucky Barnes deeply under cover but then I was hanging out with Bucky once at the compound and Sebastian Stan did an Instagram livestream at the same time so there’s no way it could be him.”

Tony blinks. “Huh.”

Peter yanks on the bottom of his suit jacket, then smooths the dark grey fabric over his shoulders. He turns fully towards Tony. “Do you— is it good? Don’t look at my ass, look at the rest. Be honest. I’ve literally never owned a real suit before so I don’t know what to— what to, I don’t know, be on the lookout for, like, if it fits. Y’know?”

Tony stares at him with open fondness despite the exhaustion painting blue bags under his eyes. With Morgan around, no one sleeps. No one. Even if they aren’t in the penthouse with her, they don’t sleep. It’s like having a baby by proxy. Peter can practically hear her wailing a borough away. It doesn’t help that Tony sends him pictures and videos of Morgan whenever he can’t sleep- which is almost always- causing Peter’s phone to buzz incessantly in the wee hours of morning when the sun is but a distant, rosy memory to the deep, tar-like sky. 

“Looks great, kid,” Tony says. He stands, approaches Peter, and they are surrounded by mirrored images of themselves, a hundred Tonys and Peters staring at them, Tony’s hand smoothing over Peter’s neck a dozen angled times. 

“For sure?” Peter says.

“For sure,” Tony confirms. A little grin flicks the corners of his lips. “You look spiffy. She won’t know what hit her.”

Peter takes a breath. A hopeful grin pokes dimples out of his cheeks. “Gee, Mister Stark. I hope you’re right.”

\--

“Hey, Em,” Peter says, leaning in to peck her cheek as he stops by her locker. 

She turns to give him a baleful look, but she’s blushing a bit. She’s usually temporarily mute in the mornings, which Peter likes to tell people is a form of strikeage against the oppressive quality of the local government for dictating schools should start at such an ungodly hour, limiting necessary sleep while teenaged brains are still in the developmental stages of being. It’s really because MJ wakes up grumpy and doesn’t like being snippy towards Peter. Peter thinks it’s cute either way.

“Let me tell you, I really missed you when I was doing the AP Gov. reading last night,” he says, shaking his head, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “I was googling things every other sentence. It took me three hours to finish.”

She turns to flick her eyebrows at him. This is MJ speak for _it was only four pages, Peter._

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “Crazy, right? We gotta start doing our homework together again, I think May is finally over— um, what happened last time.”

MJ’s lips twist into a smirk, as if she’s remembering.

Peter snorts a little. “Yeah. Yeah. No, but I think we’re safe. Like, we’ll totally have to keep the door open, but it’s cool, because if the door wasn’t open then I absolutely would not be able to focus on the homework, like, at all and I think that having the door open will inspire just enough fear in my soul at the thought of May peeking in that I will be able to rear my ADHD into hyperfixating on— studying. Highlighters. Post-it notes.”

MJ turns fully to look at him and sighs a soft laugh, looking down at him through her lashes. He will never get tired of her. Looking at her. Talking to her, even when she doesn’t answer. It’s okay; he gets it; sometimes talking is hard. But her smile could restart his heart or send his soul plummeting through time and space to brush up against hers. He would stumble through a hundred universes to have her glare at him, to hear the way her voice lilts when she reads Ginsberg aloud. 

“Hi,” Peter says gooily.

“Hey,” she says. 

Peter grins stupidly, unspeakably glad to hear the single syllable.

She shakes her head, stifling a smile of her own. 

The warning bell rings.

She closes her locker, turns back towards Peter. 

“Can I walk you to class?” he says.

“Sure,” she says. “Dork.”

He extends his arm and she slips hers through it. 

They walk slow. He asks her about her night- she’s with her dad this week, and that never tends to go particularly splendidly- and she says, “meh,” which is MJ slang for _literally terrible but I desperately don’t want to discuss it,_ so he knots their hands together and tells her about the cotton candy a little kid gave him last night while he was on patrol, and then about the three puppies he petted, and then about the time he came up behind Mister Stark and scared him so badly that he dropped a full bag of raw rice on the ground and when Mister Stark told FRIDAY to send up the Roomba to clean it, Peter got to watch Mister Stark’s live reaction to seeing the googly eyes Peter had stuck onto it.

MJ laughs at that last one, the real laugh where she snorts a little bit. It’s Peter’s favorite _favorite_ sound. He wants to make it his ringtone. Good lord. She’s just so perfect, he doesn’t get it.

They’re at her classroom door too quickly. 

“Aw,” says Peter.

Her class is mostly assembled, French textbooks in front of them on their desks, legs crossed, scrolling on their phones or staring blankly ahead as eight AM weighs their eyelids down, leadens them.

“I should go in,” MJ says. “Wanna check my homework one last time.”

“I’m sure it’s perfect,” Peter says. “You literally wouldn’t allow anything less.”

“That may be correct, but I am still completely submerged in a sea of anxiety and need to check my conjugations of _faire faillite_ _.”_

“I don’t know what that means but it sounds real pretty when you say it like that,” Peter says, then leans in to peck her cheek. “Bye, honey,” slips off his tongue unbidden, and he suddenly wants to physically turn into a stinkbug so MJ can stomp him under her boots.

Her nose wrinkles a little and her skin goes darker. Peter feels the heat from it where their cheeks brush. “Bye, Pete,” she says softly.

She leaves with a swish of her skirt, and Peter stands there, immobilized, mortified, and wishing a sixteen-wheeler would do him the favor of bowling him over.

\--

The next time he slips, it’s _angel._ Then _love._ Then _sweetheart,_ and at that point, he’s stopped being embarrassed because MJ kissed him so brilliantly in response that he saw the light at the end of the tunnel and considered stepping into it because his soul had reached fulfillment. 

She hated _pumpkin._ He didn’t even try _baby_ because he’s certain above all things that she would find that demeaning. _Beautiful_ works, but only when she’s already feeling gooey. _Cutie_ when she’s laughing. _Mimi_ got shut down so fast that he was amazed she didn’t sock him right on the nose. _Sweet pea_ is tossed out sarcastically when she’s grumpy. 

_“Sugar pie, honey bunch,”_ he sings as she brushes her teeth in his bathroom, wearing one of his t-shirts, which is embarrassingly short on her and makes Peter feel like a beanie baby next to the Jolly Green Giant. _“I’m weaker than a man should be.”_ He comes up behind her, puts his hands on her hips, sways back and forth. _“I can’t help myself!”_

“I ca’ tell,” MJ says around her toothbrush. She leans forward and spits.

She’s staying over tonight because her dad is a jerk. May is okay with this because May is the polar opposite of a jerk. MJ always starts out on the couch and ends up in Peter’s bed after about fifteen minutes but May pretends not to notice because May loves Peter and loves MJ possibly more and is very cool.

Peter jabs his own toothbrush in his mouth and continues to sing around it. He’s very happy. He usually can’t help but be happy when MJ is around and he gets to kiss her and smell her hair and listen to her heart beat like _lublub, lublub._

_“When I call your name, girl, it starts a flame, burning in my heart, tearing it all apart.”_ He leans over her to spit into the sink. She shoves his shoulder and he almost misses, catching himself on the counter.

“Hey,” he whines. “That was so mean. My feelings. I’m wounded.”

MJ shrugs, opening the mirror to put her toothbrush on her designated shelf along with the little blue-green container for her contacts and the retainer she refuses to wear to sleep.

“Your singing wounded my ears, so we’re even.”

“I’d like to let you know that both May and Morgan love my singing.”

“Well, Morgan is too young to have developed taste and May loves you too much to be impartial.”

“Okay, you know what? If you’re not going to be supportive of me pursuing a career as a singer-songwriter then I’m not sure if this is gonna work out,” Peter says, leaning forward and grabbing MJ around the waist. He hikes her up onto his shoulder and she lets out a little shriek, grabbing a double-fistful of his shirt, and he tries not to appreciate the view of her butt in the air reflected in the mirror more than he ought to. 

He lugs her, kicking and laughing, all the way to his bed and tosses her down (gently, because he’s so afraid to hurt her, like, all the time). 

He follows her down onto the sheets, letting out a groan, stretching, and splaying flat on top of her. 

She grunts and hammers on his shoulder twice. 

_“Sugar pie, honey bunch,”_ he sings, suddenly warm, dragging his nose along her skin until he finds the dip under her chin. He presses his lips against the skin of her neck. _“I can’t help myself,”_ he breathes, his lips dragging against her jugular, and she leans her head back. Peter brushes some of her hair out of the way and presses kiss after kiss along her throat, over the hard line of her collarbones, and she lets out this breathy little moan that makes him think he’s dead, he’s literally dead because there is no physical way he could be alive and contain all of these feelings without exploding in a burst of technicolor guts all over his walls. 

She wraps her thighs around his hips and flips them over and he’s absolutely goddamn useless looking up at her like this. A pawn at her mercy, and, _Christ,_ _“I can’t help myself,”_ she hums against his lips, and her hand slips under his shirt, and she’s so soft and warm and, really, Peter should have known sooner he was a goner.

\--

When Peter shows up at MJ’s mom’s house to pick her up and MJ opens the door wearing a burgundy tuxedo with a white shirt unbuttoned almost halfway down, Peter thinks he’s burning at the stake. His jaw drops wide open. 

She smiles coyly at him.

The way one of her front teeth sticks out just slightly more than the other when she smiles. The frizz on her curls. The careful arch of her eyebrows and the messy way she had filled them in. She’s so stunning it makes Peter stupid. He can’t think of a word. Not a single word, none of them, out of all the words in the English language, his brain is giving him TV static. Alphabet soup, but just the reddish brothy stuff from the Campbell’s can; no tiny letter noodles.

“Hngh,” his mouth says.

“Don’t sexualize me,” says MJ.

“Nonono,” he says, “no, it’s like— being in the Met, like, I don’t even—! Like, like, you could’ve been a bronze statue that came to life _Night at the Museum_ style. An artist had to—” Peter brandishes his hands at MJ. “Wow,” he says.

She’s blushing pinker than Peter has ever seen, and she blushes a lot, so that’s saying something.

She grabs him by the hand, yanks him inside the apartment, and kisses him stupid until he hears her mother’s footsteps approaching and he pulls away discreetly, starting halfway through a sentence about the welcome mat and _is that new? I like it. Very chic._

MJ fiddles with his hair, smoothing it back, tucking the overgrown bits behind his ears.

“Shaggy,” she calls him. Her nicknames are far more creative than his. 

He says, “like, zoinks, Em.”

_“Never,_ and I mean never, say that again.”

“Agreed, yes, I— agree.”

Missus Jones takes about ninety pictures of them and assures Peter, to his chagrin, that she is sending them to Tony and May expressly. 

MJ pins a boutonniere on Peter, then Peter pins one on her right back. Pale pink carnations with baby’s breath and delicate, spindly green stuff.

Happy drives them to the venue, where they alternate between standing in the corner surveying everyone and slurping on slushies and dancing their absolute hearts out in a way that would normally be embarrassing but, because it’s both of them, is not. They flail stupidly, laughing with their heads thrown back, clutching hands and spinning each other, unabashed like splattered Pollocks on the wall beside a Monet. 

They huddle close for the slow songs, Peter leading her delicately in something closer to a waddle than any dance but is perfect, perfect, perfect, because she’s all pressed up against him and her hair is poking his nose a little and her hands are cold, always freezing cold, and it’s his favorite place to be, right here.

_“Sugar pie, honey bunch,”_ he hums in her ear, ignoring whatever Ed Sheeran crap the DJ is playing. 

_“You know that I love you,”_ MJ sings back, her voice sweet as can be.

_“I can’t help myself,”_ Peter sings. _“I love you and nobody else.”_

“And nobody else,” MJ echoes.

There are worse ways a prom could go, Peter thinks as MJ steps on his toe accidentally, and then purposely. Most _definitely_ worse ways a prom could go. She’s here, after all, so nothing could ever be better.

**Author's Note:**

> what did i tell u??? softness. i love love.
> 
> i finally wrote peter/mj!! who woulda thunk it. maybe this will make me want to write them more. who knows.
> 
> let me know what you thought! oh and the song is "i cant help myself (sugar pie, honey bunch)" and i like the four tops version best hehe
> 
> comment and kudos and bookmark and all that jazz; every comment is another day i dont contract corona (my county in infected everyone it's encroaching)
> 
> i mcfrickin love u <33


End file.
